Til Death Do Us Part
by rubirosas
Summary: Even criminals go on vacation. In Red's absence, Keen and Ressler go undercover as a married couple to catch a serial killer Ressler's been hunting since he was fresh out of the Academy.
1. The Minister

**A/N: **_(added 10.26.13) This takes place after The Stewmaker, but before The Courier._

**Chapter 1: The Minister**

_Where does a notorious criminal go on vacation?_ Elizabeth Keen wondered as she stared out a window in the conference room that she'd been called to several minutes ago. Ressler was uncharacteristically late-to his own meeting-which would have been enough to distract her without Red being on vacation. It had only been a few months since she'd started working as an FBI profiler and already she was quite used to both of them-Ressler's fastidiousness and familiar bark, the way he adjusted his tie when he was agitated, Red's calm voice and aggravating way of constantly being right…

_I bet he's on a private island surrounded by women in grass skirts and-_

"Keen," Ressler's annoyed voice interrupted her from her thoughts.

Liz immediately looked up with an apologetic smile, clutching her styrofoam cup of coffee. "You've arrived," she said, hastily going to take a seat and wondering when the room had filled up with a table full of agents and her boss, Assistant Director Harold Cooper.

From his place at the head of the room, Ressler plugged in a flashdrive to the laptop that was set up near the projector. A few moments later, a scanned copy of a wedding photo appeared onscreen. Blushing blonde bride, handsome dark-haired groom, a lavish reception by the looks of it. Sometime in the early 2000s, if Liz was any judge of wedding fashions.

"Edward and Mallory Williams, Tarrytown, New York, 2003," Ressler said before the slide changed to another couple, redheads posed for a formal portrait, perhaps for a Christmas card. "Allen and Stacia Harris, Middletown, Vermont, 2005."

In total, there were five couples from 2003 to 2011, in various upscale communities from upstate New York to the Outer Banks of North Carolina, who Ressler listed off. Keen was interested now, her distraction completely gone, as she waited for him to continue.

"These couples were all upper-middle-class folks with white collar jobs who were well-known in their respective communities," Ressler said, looking around the table at the agents and Cooper. "They had two things in common. One-they were all married less than five years and had marital troubles."

Ressler's gaze seemed to stop on Keen when he said _marital troubles_, or maybe she just imagined it. Either way, she shifted in her seat a bit uncomfortably and looked down at the notepad in front of her, as if the shorthand notes she'd been taking were of sudden importance.

"Two," Ressler continued-if he had been scrutinizing her, there was no evidence of it, and Keen went back to looking up at his presentation-"They all disappeared, without a trace, on so-called 'couples weekends' put together by the minister of their respective churches."

"Are you saying we've got a crime ring perpetuated by preachers?" one of the other agents asked.

Ressler looked at the other man with thinly veiled contempt. "No. If you'd allow me to continue-" He gestured back up to the projector screen. "Each couple went to couples' therapy with their minister anywhere from a couple of weeks to six months before they went on a couples' weekend-just the two of them, at a place their minister recommended, usually secluded, out in the woods, up in the mountains, or both. None of the couples returned. They were reported missing anywhere from two days to a week after they were supposed to come back home. During the window where they were unreported, their bank accounts were drained, assets liquidated, apparently done by the couples themselves, as far as any computer records show."

He took another look around the room to make sure he had everyone's attention, letting out a breath as he did so, before continuing. "In each case, the minister-generally the last person to have seen the couples alive, wishing them well, giving them directions to the getaway, that sort of thing-disappeared not long after, also leaving no trace. Upon further investigation, each church's board of administrators discovered the man's credentials were false. In every instance, the minister fits the same physical description. We're not talking about a ring of preachers."

Ressler pointedly looked at the agent who'd spoken out of turn. "We're talking about one preacher. One man who preys on well-to-do couples, exploits their weaknesses, presumably kills and disposes of their bodies and takes their money. He's done it roughly every two years for the last decade. We've never been able to get more than a physical description, a couple of blurry photos. Until now." He motioned to the agent sitting to his left. "Agent Donnelly goes to church out in McLean. He's on the board of directors. They just hired a new minister a few weeks ago. Agent, would you care to go on?"

Donnelly, a man who wasn't too far from retirement, nodded. "The entire board approved the guy-Reverend David Sayles-but there was something off about him, I dunno. Maybe it's the Fed in me. I start lookin' into him-some of his stories don't check out...then I remember this case. Ressler's been working on it for years, so I ask him...we connect the dots. Based on the descriptions, it looks like Sayles is our guy. Not that we have any proof."

"Except he's started very vigorously pushing his offer of marriage counseling to the congregation," Ressler said.

"So what're we gonna do, send Donnelly undercover?" Keen couldn't help say.

Ressler gave her a small smirk. "Donnelly's not exactly the guy's target demographic. For starters, everyone in the congregation knows he's a Fed. Secondly, he's not young and he doesn't make six figures."

Keen raised a brow at him. "All right, then who?" She was about to start listing other people in the room when it dawned on her. There were only two of them at the table who outwardly appeared to fit the demographic and could pass for a married couple.

"Me'n you, Keen," Ressler said with about as much enthusiasm as she felt-which was in the negatives. "Don't look so shocked, would you? Now we've got Donnelly for logistics, Weymar for all the paperwork that comes with fake identities…"

He began listing off who would be running point on what, but Liz barely heard him. Pretending to be an upwardly mobile couple with Donald Ressler-probably only for a couple of weeks, but technically for an 'indefinite' period of time. Not exactly how she pictured her next assignment with the Bureau.

"Keen, are you paying attention?" Ressler asked, likely knowing she wasn't.

She tapped her fingers on the table. "Yep."

He let out a sigh. "I know you're disappointed not to be babysitting Reddington for the moment, but I'm going to need your full attention. One mistake-"

This time, Keen let her irritation show. "I know how undercover works, Donald," she said quietly. As if he hadn't been running surveillance every time she'd been undercover. As if he hadn't seen her at rather low points on the job.

"Right," was all he said before launching back into his spiel.

In the space of an hour, they had new identities and backstory. They would be Don and Liz Goode, a pair of workaholic Washington attorneys who resided in McLean and devoted more time to litigating cases than to their three-year marriage. Neither of them were much for church, but Liz dragged Don one Sunday in the hopes of pushing him toward marriage counseling. At least, that's what was going to happen two days from then, on Sunday morning.

They would be taken to the McMansion owned by the Bureau later that evening so they'd have a day to scope out the place and get used to their surroundings.

_What's to scope out?_ Liz wondered as she packed a bag of her best clothes and jewelry. McLean, as she'd already known and heard Ressler drone on about, was in Fairfax County, the second wealthiest county in the entire country, home to senators and former Vice Presidents. It was rather obvious why The Minister (as they'd taken to calling Sayles) had chosen this place for his next set of victims.

She finished packing and reached for her cell phone to call Tom again. He'd been oddly unreachable all afternoon and Liz frowned as she got his voicemail again. "Hey, it's me. I'm about to leave…" She'd explained rather vaguely in a previous message that she'd be going undercover and wouldn't be able to contact him till she was out. Liz had hoped to explain in person, but he wasn't home like she'd anticipated and there was no time to wait around for him.

"...I'm about to turn my cell off. I'll be on a Department-issue one from here on out. I love you." With that, she ended the call, staring down at the screen for a moment. A short honk of a car horn out front brought Liz from her daze. Ressler. It was like him to just beep the horn instead of coming to the door. Of course knowing him, he probably expected her to be outside waiting. She rolled her eyes and shut off the phone, setting it on the end table. Then, she took her suitcase and wheeled it outside, locking the door behind her.

"Here, let me get that," Ressler was out of the car and up the steps faster than Liz could go down them, his hand on her suitcase. Somehow, she thought it had more to do with getting on the road as fast as possible than with being a gentleman...yet she couldn't think that was it entirely-he had been known to show his softer side every now and again. He was definitely someone she didn't have entirely figured out-for a profiler, Liz sometimes had a hard time reading those around her.

_She'd certainly missed a lot of things about Tom. _

_Where had that thought come from?_ Liz took a deep breath, wiping her hands on her pants as she went for the passenger side of the-

"Range Rover?" She raised her brows and looked over at Ressler quizzically as he closed the back door after loading her suitcase.

"Yeah, Don and Liz Goode don't exactly drive Bureau-issue sedans," Ressler said as he went around to the driver's side. Once they were both in the SUV buckling their seatbelts, he added, "Keeping up with the Joneses and all of that."

"Right," Liz nodded. She looked down at the gold wedding band on her ring finger-her own platinum one was safely at home. This was Bureau-issued and she realized as she glanced over at Ressler's hands on the wheel that he was now wearing the matching one, probably had been since they'd been given them at work. "Guess we'd better start getting in character," she said with a small smile.

"We probably should," Donald said, looking straight ahead as he switched lanes. "So...you're the married one...maybe you should start us off. Why might we be having trouble?"

There was a hint of sarcasm in his voice-he was trying to crack a joke, as best he knew how-yet the question set Liz on edge and she was back to thinking about Tom's unexplained absence that afternoon.

"There could be a number of reasons," she shrugged, trying to be casual about it. "We both work too much, neither of us is emotionally available, maybe we're-keeping secrets."

Ressler's head swiveled around so quickly that Liz instantly regretted the last example. _Why the hell had she said it aloud?_

Instead of saying something short or chastising her, he stared at Liz a moment before focusing back on the road, putting on his turn signal to get into the right lane so he could make the right onto US 29 South. "Good. That's a good start. Let's expand on that."

Liz held in the sigh of relief she wanted to let out and checked the clock on the dash. They had a forty-five minute drive ahead of them, plus an entire day of this stuff tomorrow. She pushed down her dread and nodded. "Right...okay...let's do this."


	2. Home Sweet Home

**A/N:** I should have noted in chapter 1 that this story takes place sometime after _The Stewmaker_ but before _The Courier_-although I am taking some Ressler info we learn about in _The Courier_ and using it here. Special thank you to **mrstater** for betaing this for me.

**Chapter 2: Home Sweet Home**

Donald Ressler fidgeted with the wedding ring, sliding it up and down his left ring finger, trying to get used to the feel of the gold band. He wasn't a jewelry sort of guy and he wondered if all rings felt so weighty or if it was simply the connection to being tied down to someone (even pretend tied down to someone) that made wedding rings in particular feel heavier.

He shook his head. That was silly talk and he wasn't a silly man, not at all. And besides, if he let his thoughts start down that path, he might start thinking about-

"You okay?" Keen, who was holding her suitcase and a matching bag (both floral print, high end), interrupted his thoughts. For once, Ressler was grateful. He realized that he'd been standing in the same spot in the driveway for too long and quickly nodded. "Yeah, just, uh, getting a feel for the house," he said, motioning toward the ridiculously large Tudor-style mansion at the end of the sprawling drive.

"More like a small palace," Keen joked as she started rolling her luggage toward the front doors.

"Tell me about it," Ressler said, coming along with his own suitcase (dark blue polycarbonate, practical).

Once they were at the stairs, they both awkwardly lugged their suitcases the rest of the way up, then Ressler reached into his coat pocket for the keys. He unlocked the deadbolt and pushed open one of doors, letting out an appreciative whistle as they went in.

"Palatial is right," he said, surveying the sweeping foyer and plush white carpet further down the hall, which lead into a rather grand sitting room.

"How'd the FBI come to own this place, anyway?" Keen asked, walking ahead of him to inspect the other rooms in the immediate vicinity. Ressler followed and observed a large den and a couple of lavishly decorated office-type rooms.

He wondered about their functionality, then turned to Keen in reply to her question. "The previous owner had a little problem with money laundering. It was seized by the government. At one time, it was used by visiting dignitaries, high-level meetings, that sort of thing. It's been sitting empty for awhile, I think. This area is way out of the Minister's price range-I doubt he'd know anything about who owns it-but if we need to have him over, it'll function well enough. Someone's supposed to be bringing over more personal decor either tonight or tomorrow-photographs, whathaveyou, so the place looks a bit more...homey."

"Homey," Keen repeated, as if considering the word for a moment. Then, she nodded. "What's the bedroom situation like?" she asked, heading toward the massive staircase.

"There's a few of them," Ressler said, following her once more. "Take the master bedroom, I'll set up camp down the hall."

The way her shoulders tensed just slightly as they reached the top of the stairs told him that Keen was perhaps offput by his wording-though he hadn't meant it to be an order. Despite their interactions after her kidnapping by the Stewmaker, there was still a push-and-pull between the two of them. He was in charge of the undercover operation-there was no doubt in Ressler's mind about that-but he was going to have to rely on Keen more than he cared to admit. After all, pretending to be married in front of the Minister would require constant collaboration every moment they were with the man.

"Why don't we both get settled in," Ressler said, trying to go for a softer tone. Why is it an effort? he wondered. As if he was more comfortable in Special Agent mode. That wasn't far from the truth and he frowned, pushing down the thought. "Not sure what there is around here by way of food, but we could always order in."

Keen only gave him a short nod and murmured something about letting him know in a bit, then headed to the master bedroom. He watched her go before starting down the hallway toward the other rooms.

He settled on the bedroom closest to Keen's, out of sheer practicality. There was a full sized bed, a desk and a bureau, along with a walk-in closet and an en-suite bathroom. Nicer than a lot of hotel rooms, Ressler thought as he began carefully hanging up the clothes he'd brought with him. After he'd done that, he set up a work station at the desk-laptop, leather folio with a legal tablet inside.

After about an hour or so of research (work-related, of course), Ressler got up and stretched, then made his way downstairs to investigate the food situation. As he'd feared, the refrigerator, while working, held nothing but condiments.

A couple minutes later, Ressler was back upstairs, knocking on the doors to the master bedroom.

"Come in," Keen called out.

He pushed open one of the doors and went in, glancing around.

"Wow, swanky," Ressler remarked. If his bedroom had been impressive, the master bedroom was even more so, a queen sized bed with plush linens and an antique-looking wardrobe being the centerpieces. Amidst the grandeur, Keen's suitcase looked like it'd exploded, clothes and accessories everywhere. It appeared she was arranging them in a certain way, but Ressler could hardly imagine what sort of way that might be.

"Isn't it?" Keen's voice came from the direction of the open bathroom area, part of which he could glimpse from the door. He took a few steps closer, observing her in the large mirror, arranging an assortment of cosmetics and toiletries.

"Jesus, Keen, were you a Girl Scout or something?"

"Why?"

"Because you sure as hell came prepared."

She gave him a look in the mirror. "Let me guess, you brought a couple of suits-expensive ones, I hope, not the Joseph A. Bank ones you're usually in, a handful of ties and a few shirts, your Old Spice, and that's it?"

"I do not wear Old Spice," he countered, though she admittedly had the rest mostly right. "I'm supposed to be a lawyer-what else do I need? And I brought my dressy tie clips and fancy cufflinks, thank you."

"Wow, your fancy cufflinks-leave it to you to go all out," Keen smirked.

"Yeah, yeah." Ressler rolled his eyes. "Anyway, I came to ask you about dinner-there's nothing in the fridge or the pantry. I thought we could do takeout and I'll run to that store that was down the road to get some basics while we wait for it to get here."

"Sounds good. What were you thinking, Chinese?" she asked.

He nodded-it was always Chinese or pizza with agents, wasn't it? "There's a place not too far away that delivers."

"Sure-if you give me the number, I'll go ahead and make the order while you go to the store," she said.

Once Ressler had done that, he put together a list for the grocery store, adding the items Keen suggested, then went out. When he returned, Keen came out to the garage to greet him, helping him unload the bags and bring them in.

There was something oddly domestic about it-both of them fumbling around an unfamiliar kitchen putting groceries away-occasionally bumping into one another. It felt kind of nice, but he didn't think too much on it.

When the takeout came, Ressler answered the door and paid cash, then took the bags inside. "It's here," he called out to Keen, who had gone back upstairs.

"Do you mind if we eat in the breakfast nook?" Keen asked when she finally appeared in the kitchen a couple of minutes later. "That dining room looks damn depressing."

"I thought it was nice," Ressler said with a shrug, "but sure."

"Eat wherever you like," Keen said with a smile, "Although I guess I shouldn't be surprised you like things formal, even when you eat."

He rolled his eyes, going for one of the cans of beer from the six-pack he'd bought. "You'd think differently if you saw my apartment."

"Now there's a thought," Keen said, "Donald Ressler's apartment-I'm going to go with tidy as hell, yet still bachelor-friendly-leather couch, everything in bold blues and reds…Functionality over fashionable, am I right?""

"Blues and greens," Ressler corrected her, "But that's not really terribly startling, is it?" She already knew how he felt about profiling as a science. Then, after a moment, with a slight frown, he added, "Functional can be fashionable. Some things are timeless."

"Like your Men in Black suits," Keen teased.

"Hey, sometimes I wear blue," Ressler protested.

Keen threw back her head and laughed at that.

He should have been even more annoyed, but instead Donald found himself looking at her, stuck on how she looked when she was completely relaxed-a look he didn't think he'd ever seen on her.

"What?" Her eyes were suddenly on him, all relaxation gone, and he almost felt bad that his gaze had caused the moment to end.

"-nothing," he said, coming out of the thought with a shake of his head. "So, uh, how's Tom with you being gone?"

Ressler said _Tom_ as if he knew her husband beyond the scope of the Zamani investigation, in which Tom Keen had been rather brutally injured. They were standing around the island in the kitchen, starting in on their food. Things were informal. He could do informal.

But instead of causing his colleague to relax again, the question seemed to take her off-guard and if he didn't know any better, Ressler would say that Keen faltered for a few moments before finally answering.

"He's-well, as fine as he can be," she said with a forced smile.

She was hiding something, but now wasn't the time to discuss it and Ressler needed a moment to push down the urge to interrogate her. "Right," he finally said, grabbing a couple of the open takeout cartons. "Let's get this stuff moved to the, uh, breakfast nook." He started in that direction. "Eating dinner in the breakfast nook, what a couple of rule breakers we are."

Keen snorted. "You're something else, Agent Ressler." She paused. "Or I guess I'd better start calling you Don, right?"

"Right. Liz." He said it just as awkwardly.

Better awkward now than later, though. "Don and Liz Goode" were supposed to be married and they would need to start acting like it.

"Bet you've always been Donald, never Don or Donnie," Liz said with a knowing smile.

"Yep." Only his family and a couple of old friends called him Donnie and even that had mostly stopped after-

_Don't even go there_, he thought to himself.

-after he stopped visiting home as much following the argument with his parents.

He was getting sloppy at keeping his thoughts at bay.

_"You can take time to grieve, Donnie," his father said in that urgent tone of his._

_"Don't. Don't lecture me and don't call me Donnie."_

**She'd** _called him Donnie._

"Any reason?" Keen asked, bringing him back to the present.

"Nope," Ressler said too quickly, suddenly irritated with the way she'd been poking and prodding at him all day, still trying to profile him. Suddenly he became very interested in his egg drop soup.

He was Agent Ressler again, consuming his dinner in an orderly fashion, no small talk necessary.

If she realized she'd hit a nerve, Keen didn't indicate it outwardly. Ressler was quick to clean up his mess afterward, giving a perfunctory nod when she joined him in the kitchen to do the same.

"Think I'll turn in," he said. "Long day tomorrow."

Without waiting for her to reply, Ressler turned and went upstairs.

Hours later, he was still awake, lying in bed, then pacing the room, fidgeting with the damn wedding band again, taking it off, putting it on the bureau, then picking it up and putting it back on again. He should have known this whole thing would bring up old issues-he should have been prepared.

From down the hall, there was a_ thunk_ and fumbling around. He'd heard Keen go up to her room shortly after he did and hadn't heard her leave since then. The sound and subsequent shuffling were reminiscent of panic and Ressler was instantly out the bedroom door and in the hallway just to see her dazedly push open the French doors to the master bedroom. Her hair and simple cotton nightgown were rumpled with sleep and when she looked up at him, it was almost as if she was lost. Instantly, Ressler was reminded of the way she'd looked when they'd rescued her from the Stewmaker and his heart jumped into his throat.

"Elizabeth?" He reached out to her, a hand on her arm, tilting his head slightly to get a better look at her. "Liz?"

She looked up at him, finally registering his presence, eyes going from panicked to shutting down-a look he knew well. "I'm fine," Keen said, sudden and firm, yet not moving from his grasp. "Just woke up and forgot where I was."

He looked doubtful, then said quietly, his voice kinder, "Liz, is this-does this have to do with-the kidnapping?"

"The kidnapping," she said, glancing down. "_My_ kidnapping. It's not-a big deal. I'm fine for this case, okay? I just-still have a little trouble sleeping sometimes…"

There was more-nightmares, maybe, flashbacks or something, but Ressler didn't push. Instead, he just nodded. "Sure. Yeah. Hey, why don't you come downstairs, I'll fix you something to drink, all right?"

Keen nodded and let him guide her downstairs, not objecting to his hand on her shoulder. When they were both in the kitchen, Ressler began looking in the pantry among the purchases he'd made earlier that evening, while Keen sat down on a barstool at the island.

A few minutes later, he pushed a steaming mug of hot cocoa across the counter to her.

"I didn't peg you for a hot cocoa kind of guy, Donald," Liz said with a small smile, taking the mug.

He smirked. It was something his mother had done when he or one of his siblings were feeling down. All he said before fixing himself a mug, too, was, "Well, now you know."


End file.
